Identities
by Kiera777
Summary: Post DH. Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, had always dreamed of travelling to an alternate dimension. What he hadn't dreamed of was his Slytherin tie, Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley as his 'best friends' and the Mudblood Revolt. Not to mention a disturbingly familiar Dark Lady...
1. The Book

**DISCLAIMER: Do not own HP. Never have, never will.**

**Chapter 1. The Book**

The office room was dark. The stainless steel-grey walls were papered with tattered posters; showing shadowed faces and crazed eyes, of criminals and murderers long-past. The occasional sound of shuffling parchments filled the room, the crackle of a turning, dry page breaking the silence every minute or so. Miniature paper airplanes flew about the chamber in random directions, colliding with the walls and falling, causing their magic to sputter and then regenerate, making them take flight again. A worn, albeit large mahogany office table occupied pride of place in the room, crowned by a wooden plaque adorned by curly, peeling gold letters: _Auror(C&R). _

A dark-haired man was seated behind the desk, stooped over a scattered, unorganized bundle of parchments strewn over the polished tabletop. His calloused finger relentlessly flipped through a thick sheaf of brown parchments, the index finger and thumb of his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He pushed up the frame of his plain, black-rimmed spectacles, hiding weary emerald eyes, and let out a sigh. His scarred left hand searched for the glass of water ever present on the table, as the front of his knuckles brushed away beads of sweat collected on his forehead, sweeping away his messy, black bangs in the process. His long fingers fastened around the cold surface of the glass, as he downed all of the water in one go. Setting the empty glass on the table, he lowered his head to the gigantic pile of paperwork, when a soft knock resounded through the room.

A low 'Enter' later, heeled dragonhide boots clacked on the wooden floor, heralding the arrival of a new presence in the room. Moments later, a middle-aged man wrapped in a black travelling cloak entered the room, standing before the desk. The texture of his cloak was strange, and luxuriantly soft, drawing attention to its foreign origin. His face was lined, his nose and chin strong and displaying character, his eyes dark and piercing. A purely white, wizened walking stick was held firmly in his right hand, encased in an iron grip. His voice held a distinct foreign accent, "Rather young for ze Auror post, aren't you?"

The man got up from behind the desk, and that was only when a viewer with not-so-sharp eyes realized that he was not a man after all. He was a boy, a boy with old eyes, eyes that had seen too much to ever shine with the light of innocence again. Laugh lines were etched around his mouth, but in spite of this, an onlooker was disposed to think that the boy before them was more inclined to grief than to joy. But this was not the impression at this very moment, as the boy clapped his hand to his forehead, flattening his bangs, muttering to himself, "Seems like this guy has not heard about the War. I love foreigners."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing." The man- boy amended quickly. "I suppose you are Sir Van de Wilkes?"

Sir Van gave a stiff nod. "Yess. And you are?"

The quick smile on the boy's face wilted a bit. He seemed reluctant when he spoke, "Uh…Harry. Harry Potter."

A look of comprehension dawned over the Sir Van's face. He held forth his hand, waiting for Harry who hesitantly shook hands with him. "Very well, Mistair Potter. I understand ze mystery be'ind ze Auror's age now."

A faint smile lingered around Harry's lips, "I'm not quite an Auror yet. Haven't even given the exam. We're just a little short on people, which is why I'm sitting on this chair right now." Then a soft chuckle. "But as difficult as it may be to believe, I _am_ an adult. I turned seventeen a couple of July's ago."

"And defeated Lord Voldemort zat year." Sir Van's face broke into more lines as he smiled. 'Am I right?'

Harry regarded his visitor with growing interest. "You speak his name?"

Sir Van shrugged. "Ze man ees dead. And 'ees vanquisher stands before me."

Harry shifted awkwardly. He still hadn't quite gotten used to people calling him that. Still better than 'Saviour of the Wizarding World' though. He spoke softly, a slight bitter, dark tinge to his voice. 'He was…is not worthy of being called a man." Then, he lifted his head and smiled, "Anyway, you were here to talk about the book?"

"Yes. Can I see eet?"

Sir Van watched with growing interest as Harry waved his phoenix feather wand over the table, which glowed momentarily and then lay still. Harry then pulled open the lowest drawer, plunging his hand within its depths. His tanned hand withdrew a medium-sized, crimson volume and placed it on the tabletop. Both wizards then inspected it under their searching gaze, observing every detail of the tome: from its scarlet, hardbound cover to its square shape.

"Ze tome looks quite ordinary, doesn't eet Mistaire Potter?" Sir Van ran a searching finger over the book's smooth cover. "From where deed you find eet?"

"The ruins of the old museum. The job of the Death Eaters Reunited of course." Harry examined the book with undying interest, in spite of having already inspected it a thousand times. "Their objective is still unclear."

"Really?' Sir Van picked up the book, gripping its spine in his palm, "Because I can see zeir objective right 'ere in my 'and."

Harry looked up, curiosity sparking in those emerald eyes, "What do you mean?"

"Zis book ees….. not as ordinary as eet looks, Mistair Potter." Sir Van flipped open the book and brushed through its blank pages. "Tell me, Mistair Potter, does zis book set off any of your….eenstincts?"

Harry stared at the book nestled in the other man's palm. "It reminds me of something, actually."

Sir Van's eyes sparkled with interest. "Which ees?"

The little black diary washed out on the bathroom floor, the initials _T.M Riddle_, the Chamber of Secrets and Ginny's pale, drawn-out face flashed before Harry's eyes in the span of a second. He shook his head lightly, "Nothing. Just some bad experiences I've had."

"And why does eet remind you of such experiences?" Sir Van leaned forward questioningly.

Harry gazed at the scarlet tome again, unable to keep his eyes off it. Sir Van noticed Harry's stare, and a light smile played on his lips. "Yes...eet really draws your eyes, doesn't eet? But zat doesn't necessarily mean zat Dark Magic ees involved."

Harry looked up sharply, a questioning look in his eyes. Sir Van smiled again, "Yes, ze magical aura of ze book ees quite strong. But zat ees not ze result of Dark Magic. Some ozer force ees at work 'ere."

"You mean Light Magic?" Unbridled curiosity was exhibited in every line of Harry's face.

Sir Van chuckled. "Zis ees quite a common misconception. Mistair Potter, just because I said Dark Magic ees not involved, doesn't mean eet ees Light. Zeir are not only two types of magic."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Simply zat eet would be foolish to classify magic only as Dark or Light." Sir Van stopped flipping the pages of the tome, pausing on the central blank page. "Magic ees universal, inexplicable…..Eet would be doing magic a disservice to limit eets power only to Dark or Light."

"Who do you think created this…book?" Harry tapped his fingers lightly on the polished tabletop.

"Zat doesn't matter. What matters ees…." Sir Van took a lengthy pause. "What zis book can do."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Do?"

"Magical objects are always created for a purpose, Mistair Potter." Sir Van let out a long breath. "And zis book ees no different."

"So, what do you think is this book's purpose?" Harry's eyes returned to roving over every inch of the book's surface.

Sir Van's hand tightened over his ivory walking stick, "Zis ees ze first time zat I 'ave come across a book clearly 'undreds of years old….yet zeir is no mention of eet een any of my records. I 'ave no idea of eet's purpose."

"Don't you, now?" Harry's eyes stilled in their attempt to scan the book. He lifted up his head, an undecipherable look in his eyes, and held out his hand for the tome.

Sir Van looked at Harry, sensing a change in his thought processes, sensing the cogs that were turning with unparalleled speed in Harry's brain. Seeing that Harry's hand was still outstretched, Sir Van reluctantly relinquished hold of the tome, dropping it on Harry's open palm. Harry slid his fingers over the smooth cover, and prised the book open with his thumb. His finger ran probingly over the rough, beige-tinted parchment of the first page. "Hmm, strange that you, an expert on old tomes, don't have a clue about its purpose."

The entire dynamics in the room had changed just in the span of a second. Earlier, Harry had been the inquisitive pupil, and Sir Van the wise, well-informed teacher. Now however, it was Sir Van with the curious eyes and Harry with the I-know-something-you-don't look on his face.

"Do you know something about eet?" Sir Van took a step forward, an almost demanding note to his voice. This, along with his piercing eyes and tall stature, made him look almost intimidating, towering over the eighteen year old boy behind the desk.

The eighteen year old boy in question, simply smiled genially. Instead of attempting to out-intimidate the man, Harry sat back down on his high-backed chair, reclining in an utterly relaxed position. "I might happen to have an inkling."

"Which ees?" Sir Van appeared to be losing his patience. If his grip on the walking stick got any tighter, then there would probably be shattered pieces of wood scattering the floor any second.

The left corner of Harry's mouth quirked up. His back straightened and he spoke in his so-called 'official' voice, "Sir Van de Wilkes, the British Ministry is very grateful for your much appreciated opinion. We will call you for your expert advice if it is needed. Good afternoon."

Sir Van's eyebrows flared at the obvious dismissal. His mouth curled into an ugly sneer, "Very well, Mistair Potter. You think you can solve ze mystery of ze book on your own, fine. But let me warn you, " the bottom of his walking stick thumped hard against the wooden floor, "You are going to regret zis."

"Am I, now?" Harry couldn't stop the faint smirk which decorated his lips. "Now that's another thing you're wrong about, Sir Van. In addition to the book, of course."

"Ze book? What do you mean?" For the first time since Sir Van had set foot inside the room, he seemed uncertain.

Harry smiled. He lightly ran a caressing thumb over the scarlet tome's surface, "I mean that you're wrong about its nature. This….." Harry's thumb paused in its casual perusal, "is not a book."

For a moment, everything came to a standstill. The only sound that could be heard in the room was that of Harry's silent breathing and Sir Van's harsh exhalations. Then, Sir Van's voice came, quiet yet reluctant, "What do you mean?"

"This is not a book." Harry repeated. He looked up at his visitor, a curious gleam in jade eyes, "This is a journal."

"I do not undairstand what you are trying to eemply, Mistair Potter." Sir Van spoke haltingly, but his gaze was intent.

"The implications are quite simple, Sir." Harry's voice was utterly calm and laidback. "This is a journal, employed to record a person's feelings, thoughts and experiences. And I, " Harry paused for a second. "Intend to use it."

Sir Van remained silent for a minute. Then he spoke, grim and severe, "Do as you please, Mistair Potter. But let me warn you, ze book you hold een your hand ees no ordinary tome or _journal_, as you call eet. It ees a powerful magical artifact, and not one to be taken lightly."

"Thanks for the advice." Harry watched, reclined in his chair, as Sir Van turned around and proceeded to walk out of the Head Auror's chamber. Then he raised his voice slightly, "Excuse me, Sir?"

Sir Van swirled around, suspicion gleaming faintly in his eyes, "Yes?"

Harry picked up a quill from his desk, nonchalantly flipping it over and over in his hand. "As far as I am aware, and my awareness happens to be rather high in such situations, Sir Van de Wilkes does not speak in an accent, in spite of not being born or brought up in Britain." Harry raised his eyes to meet Sir Van's shocked ones, "It's one of the reasons why he's so much in demand by Ministries all over the world."

Sir Van looked, for the lack of a word, dumbfounded. His face turned pale and pasty with shock. He fumbled with his walking stick, muttering an eloquent string of curses under his breath, "Mistair Po- oh no, I mean…uh- Mister Potter, I can explain…uh..um-not explain exaclty, oh sorry, I mean exactly..uh-I don't really know what I mean b-but..uh.." Sir Van turned tail and, again for the lack of a word, fled for his life.

Harry remained reclined on his chair, behaving as if he had not just caught an imposter impersonating a well-known, renowned foreign expert or that a seemingly-powerful, middle-aged man had just not been reduced to pieces in front of him. He simply reached for a piece of parchment on his table and drew it towards him, scribbling down the appearance of his recent visitor and orders for him to be restrained as soon as he was spotted in the Atrium. A well-cast enchantment later, the parchment automatically folded itself into a paper-airplane cum memo, and zoomed out of the door of the office.

Harry laid back on the headrest of his comfortable chair, and thought about what he had just written down. Harry sighed. Amateurs. They should really know better than to fool any Auror, not just him, with something as basic as Polyjuice Potion. Sure, if Kingsley had not casually mentioned about Sir Van's impeccable high-British accent to him, then Harry may not have been able to identify the imposter. After all, excluding the whole foreign-accent bumble, the imposter had done a fine job with the impersonation, especially with the whole lecture about the nature of magic and powerful artifacts. But still, at least observing the person you were trying to impersonate was elementary. Harry might not have seen Sir Van before, but he might have had a faint idea about his mannerisms.

Harry yawned briefly, opening his mouth to just half its size and glanced towards the once-empty glass on his table. It was full to the brim with water now, the Refilling Charm having done its job well, but Harry really had no stomach for more water. Harry kneaded his eyelids with his knuckles, yawning again. He was truly exhausted. First the War, then a bare two-month gap before taking on the pressurizing job of Auror, trainee or no trainee. (Kingsley simply did not listen to all of the arguments Harry had to give about his age and incompetence, ever since the new Combat and Research Division had been added to the Aurors. Add that to the fact that ninety percent of the Auror task force had been wiped out in the War). Paperwork, trials, paperwork, rounding up Voldemort's supporters, paperwork and more paperwork. Add to that, the whole mystery about the book. Sure, he may not have been lying when he told the imposter about the journal and his intention to use it, but Harry still had no clue about its magical properties. But that didn't matter. Soon, Harry would hand over the tome to the Department of Mysteries, people who actually had an idea about magical artifacts, and erase all details about the book from his mind. That should have been Harry's course of action in the first place, instead of calling a foreign expert for solving his own personal curiosities. One of Harry's fatal flaws: never to hand over an unsolved mystery to someone else. But he would do it now.

Harry stirred. His eyes flicked of their own accord towards the scarlet tome. Before Harry could realize what he was doing, the book was already in his hands and Harry had flicked open to the first page. Harry groaned mentally. Curiosity killed the cat, but the cat never learned its lesson.

Harry screwed open the cap of his ink bottle and dipped his tattered, eagle-feather quill into the indigo-hued ink. He held the quill between his fingers, poised over the faded parchment of the journal. Then, after a brief period of hesitance, he touched the quill to the surface of the page:

_Harry Potter. A name which defined my identity ever since I first opened my eyes, or became capable of thought. It's a name which I have: been tired of, despised with all my heart, and felt proud to call my own. _

_A day in May was enough to redefine me all over again. From the Boy-who-Lived, I became the Saviour of the World. The one person who gave my life a purpose for more than seventeen years, is now gone. It feels strange, to live life without having to look behind my back at all times. I do still look behind my back sometimes, except it's for rabid journalists rather than crazy megalomaniacs. It's an improvement. I guess._

_But I've shied away from one of the duties which I have: rebuilding Hogwarts. A time when Hogwarts needs me the most and I'm not there. Hermione says it's ok, that I need the time to get over all my bad experiences. I guess it's just the fact that Hogwarts has been my first home, and I can't bear to see it broken, if only to reconstruct it. _

_But the others are doing a great job. Hermione's chief architect of course, with Ron by her side to quarrel over every tiny, little thing, and make up for it later. All the other 'eighth' years are helping, along with a good portion of the seventh. Neville's doing a stand-up job of enabling the school to get on its feet again, going to the doorstep of every parent who's reluctant to send their children, and practically demanding them to remember what they owe to the school. He's so changed, it's almost strange…. but in a good way. Luna's gotten an offer to join as chief reporter for the Daily Prophet, but she wants to complete her education. Not that she's not managing the entire Quibbler all on her own, and doing a phenomenal job of it. The professors, students, all are starting to look a bit more cheerful with every passing day, as if they are really looking forward to a brighter future._

_As for Ginny; she has been, for the lack of a better word, my rock. She probably is the strongest of us all, in spite of Fred. It's a wonder how she manages to devote time to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, rebuilding Hogwarts, taking care of George, and supporting me, all at the same time. She brings a smile to everyone around her, and inspires them to work harder and I marvel at how I managed to have someone like her in my life._

_So, for the first time in my life, I'm happy. In the true sense of the word._

_The reporters ask me whether what I want now, is a happy, peaceful life. I reply with a 'Yes', but the Yes is not as powerful or strong as I want it to be. It sounds crazy, yes, that after seven years of battling a Dark Lord, destroying Horcruxes, and finally defeating him, I still want excitement. You know, it's something like a story I read long time ago, before I knew about magic. One of the stories of the Arabian Nights, Sinbad the Sailor. About a sailor who faced countless, fatal dangers every time he ventured out to sea, and escaped from death narrowly every time. But he still wanted more. It was like a faint sense of incompleteness inside his heart, a feeling which led him to danger every single time, a longing for the excitement, the thrill, the sea._

_So, I'm definitely happy, but I'm not so sure if I'm content. There's a difference between the two, I've realised. _

_So when the people ask, what's next in Harry Potter's perfect life, I say that I don't know. I guess you can say that I'm waiting, waiting for the next incident to redefine me and my life, all over again. _

Fingers aching, Harry dropped the quill from his numb hand, his head falling backwards in exhaustion. Silence reigned in the dark office chamber, save for scratching noises far off into the distance where a few people were still working overtime. Harry's eyelids felt abnormally heavy, he couldn't stop them closing while his head lolled to the side. Within minutes, he dozed off to sleep.

Then, a blinding flash of white light lit up the room. It must have shown from a distance, yet no one came to enquire, considering the late night hour. It could easily have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, considering the one-second span of the flash. It swept through the room and disappeared, leaving the chamber cold and empty.

The strong night wind suddenly blew the window open, banging the wooden frame against the hard wall. Rain and sleet dotted the glass pane, the wind shrieking like a tortured Dementor, the storm raging like FiendFyre. The pale, barely-there moonlight peeking out of the storm-clouds, cast a silvery glow over the desolate room. It cast a pale shine on the empty table top, the liquid moonlight slithering over the outline of the chair behind the desk.

The chair was empty.

**A/N: If you liked it, please review. The real action starts from the next chapter.**


	2. Confused

**Chapter 2. Confused**

Everything was black.

Then sensation started, a slow dull feeling somewhere behind Harry's temples. At first it was an aching throb, then it multiplied and magnified till it practically pounded like a thousand migraines and Harry felt as his head was being pulverized between a hammer and an anvil. At least, that was what he would have described it as if he was anywhere near fully conscious.

His entire body felt numb. His throat was parched, his tongue thick and swollen, and he had forgotten what it was like to own limbs, which were currently dead pieces of bone, muscle and flesh. Harry dazedly tried to wiggle his fingers. After a long, excruciating effort, his index finger twitched slightly. After regaining some semblance of movement in his hand, Harry slowly, inch by inch, tried to raise a ten-pound, leaden right hand to knock some sensation back into his head apart from deadening pain. After a few sensation-less knocks, Harry finally managed to feel a dull blow on the back of his head. Harry mentally sighed in relief. Now the eyes.

It was easier said than done. His eyelids felt like they had been superglued shut, and opening them took much more effort and strength of will than defeating a Dark Lord, something which Harry knew all about. He did manage to open them, then closed them again as a piercing light almost seared his sensitive eyeballs. Next time Harry opened his eyelids, it was a few minutes later and he was distinctly more careful, opening them only to half-mast and squinting against the bright light.

_To hell with it. _Harry decided and got up to a sitting position, opening his eyes fully. Immediately his world spun around him and Harry doubled up, clutching his head to protect himself from the dizziness and disorientation that threatened to claim him. Acidic bile rose up in his throat and Harry's eyes watered, desperately trying to resist the urge to puke. After a few more moments of vertigo, Harry felt less nauseous and opened his eyes again, which had automatically flown shut when he had sat up.

Harry blinked.

He was sitting in a dim, narrow alley, relatively clean but stinking with the unmistakable smell of rotten tomatoes and burnt plastic. Overhead, the bright summer sun rays illuminated a clear blue London sky, as pale wispy clouds sped across it buffeted by the winds. The sounds of car engines, horns and pedestrians talking and laughing amongst themselves could easily be heard beyond the alley.

_Where the hell am I?_

Harry got to his feet, swaying unsteadily for a few moments but regaining his balance soon enough. Drawn and aching, with a scrunched up brow and thoughts buzzing in his head, Harry walked to the end of the alley and glanced out, a steady hand on his wand.

He got a fair idea of his location soon enough. Because if he was not mistaken, the dilapidated building just opposite to the alley was the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. What the hell was he doing here? It was clearly somewhere around ten o'clock in the morning, a time when he was most certainly supposed to be at home, at Godric's Hollow. But here he was in London, lying in a desolate alley opposite the Leaky Cauldron. The only possible solution was that someone had abducted him, but they obviously would not have dropped him off at a familiar place. Or if it was a prank, a very silly one at that. Or if Harry had apparated in his sleep, an art which he definitely had not mastered yet, even if it did sound interesting. Then what in the name of Merlin was he doing there?

Used to taking decisions in split-seconds, Harry slipped out of the alley and walked towards the Leaky Cauldron, his stride determined but his eyes alert, ready to catch any minuscule movement at the corner of his vision. His body was coiled up and tense, his stomach drawn in tight, and his hand clasped firmly around his wand.

Then Harry blinked, took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. The war was over, and there was no psychopathic Dark Lord dogging his footsteps eager to kill him, now. It was probably just a silly joke anyway. Tense shoulders relaxing, body getting unraveled, Harry crossed the road and reached the opposite pavement in front of the Leaky Cauldron in a much relaxed manner as compared to before.

Harry pushed open the aged door, which creaked slightly as it swung open. He stepped in, his soled boots making a decisive clack as they hit the wooden-planked floor, followed by the tiny click of the door closing behind him. Harry exhaled noisily, trying to blow out the dust that had immediately entered his nose the moment he stepped foot in the dark, dimly-lit inn. Everything was quiet. The tables were in their regular worn-out state, covered with a two-centimetre thick layer of dust, rickety wooden chairs were scattered here and there, the bar was desolated and silence reigned through the entire Cauldron. Harry released a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. The vice-grip on his wand automatically relaxed. Harry scolded himself mentally, there was nothing here, no world-altering prophecies, no regenerated Dark Lords and definitely no rule-the-world conspiracies. Everything was alright, someone had just played a silly joke on him, the Cauldron was empty and-

Harry froze.

The Cauldron was _empty._

The Leaky Cauldron was _never _empty.

From behind, Harry barely felt the familiar sensation of a wand poking at the back of his neck, accompanied by a smooth, soft voice, "Drop your wand and raise your hands."

_You stupid little idiot, how the hell did you fall for that? You just walked into an ambush!_

"I said, drop your wand and raise your hands now."

Harry's heart was thumping wildly. He absently wondered if he could kick his attacker in the shins backwards and manage to take him by surprise, but the wand dug into his neck hard enough to leave a bruise, leaving no room for half-formed thoughts or plans. "_Now._"

Included in the list of probably one of the most undesirable things he had done all year, Harry reluctantly withdrew his wand from his robes. The wand prodded him, hard, again, and Harry dropped his own wand clutched in his hand, the slender wooden stick clattering on to the floor, rolling over to rest underneath one of the wooden chairs. Harry could still see a thin gleam of light reflecting off its polished surface if he craned his neck.

"Now, raise your hands where I can see them and turn around, slowly."

Harry hesitantly pushed his hands up, letting them rest on his head. Then he turned around, his cloak getting caught briefly in some random rusty nail sticking out of the nearby wooden table, but he gave it a jerk, tearing it slightly, and turned around completely. His eyes widened.

There were at least ten people staring at him.

_They had me surrounded, and I didn't even know. They're good. Really good. Question is, who the heck are they?_

The person who had his wand pinned to Harry's throat smiled at him. He was a man looking to be in his forties, his curling black hair thinning in patches, parts of his shining bald pate clearly visible. His two right teeth protruded slightly over the bottom lip, imparting an almost freakish-quality to the smile. Harry thought what his scowl would look like and winced.

"So lad." The man's voice was strangely incompatible with his looks, deep and smooth. "What do you think you're doing here?"

Harry was more than aware that ten pairs of eyes were fixed on him, and not in adoration or reverence. They were sharp, gimlet-like, almost suspicious. Now Harry didn't really appreciate all the hero-worship that he received due to his Saviour-status, but he did wonder how ten people in an isolated Leaky Cauldron were glaring at the Chosen One like he was a worm to be disemboweled. This was getting stranger and stranger by the second.

"I asked you a question, boy." The man's voice jerked Harry out of his reverie. "What are you doing here?"

Harry marveled on how he still had the self-composure to direct such a perfectly polite smile at the man. "Just here for a drink."

A woman standing behind the almost-bald man snorted. "Drink? Here? Do you have any sense of self-preservation boy?"

"Why?" Harry tried his best to inject true curiosity in his voice. It wasn't difficult, he was eaten up by curiosity from head to tail at the moment, "It isn't illegal to come for a drink at the entrance of one of the busiest places in Wizarding Britain, is it?"

The man chuckled deep-throatedly. "Not illegal, no. But definitely not advisable. Especially under the present circumstances."

Harry narrowed his eyes. His voice came out sharper than he liked, "Why? What's wrong with the circumstances?" _And what in the name of bloody Merlin are you doing here pretending as if the War isn't over yet? And where has everyone else gone?_

"Do we really need to explain that to you, boy?" The woman's voice was faintly scoffing. "You do read the papers, don't you?"

_Yes, in which news is printed everyday on how more and more Dark supporters are being caught and thrown into Azkaban every day. _Harry wanted to say it out loud so badly, but instead, simply put his hands into his pockets casually, his fingers immediately closing around his thigh in a death-grip. Harry's voice shook ever so slightly, hidden by a cloak of nonchalance, "You know, for someone who's supposedly a threat, you do call me 'boy' a lot." Harry smiled again, though he was sure this time the tension showed through. "I assure you I'm seventeen."

"Enough." Someone growled from the corner. The owner of the voice pushed and shoved, until he was standing face to face with Harry, a sneer decorating his features. "I've had enough of pleasantries already. Let's get to the point."

Harry's jaw slacked, his mouth hung open. His hands seemed to have frozen up in their pockets. It was not because he hadn't seen someone direct that expression towards him for so long, he had had enough experience with it dealing with all the former Death Eaters. No, it was because of the man's face. A familiar face. A face that wasn't supposed to be alive.

"Y-y-you…. H-how is th-this…" Harry stumbled over his words in shock, but his eyes remained wide. "You're…you're Florean Fortescue."

Fortescue sneered at him once more. "Correct boy. Don't know how you know my name though."

Fortescue's words passed in through one ear and passed out of the other. Harry was barely aware that Fortescue's lips were moving, all that he knew right now was that a person who was supposed to be dead was standing in front of him, very much alive. And looking like he'd like nothing else more than to kill Harry himself.

"Now yo- " Fortescue stopped mid-word as he felt something distinctly hard digging into his throat. He blinked.

Harry stood there with a cold face and hard-set jaw, the tip of his wand jabbing against the hollow of Fortescue's throat. Fortescue sneered again, "Wandless Summoning Spell. Good to see people still know the basics."

The expression on Harry's face remained impassive. Internally, he was more than aware of the people in the room watching him, looking not even the slightest disturbed at the sight of the Chosen One holding a wand against one of their comrade's throats. Harry took in a deep, undetectable breath and spoke, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, "Who are you and why are you Polyjuiced into Florean Fortescue?"

Fortescue blinked again. Whatever question he had been expecting, this probably wasn't it. His voice was low and gruff, "I _am_ Florean Fortescue, boy."

Harry laughed, utterly mirthless. "Of course. You," Harry emphasized the word, his eyes prominently flicking over the man from top to bottom, "are Florean Fortescue, owner of an icecream sundae shop. You certainly don't look the part."

Something flickered in Fortescue's eyes and he stiffened. Harry blinked, sensing a sudden change in the thought processes of the man before him. Around him, the people in the room murmured, the almost-bald man and the woman behind him regarding Harry with something akin to suspicion in their eyes.

Fortescue's voice was a low growl, with a bitter undertone, "Its people like you who didn't allow me to look the part. In another world, maybe I would have been able to open an icecream shop. But," Fortescue's eyes flashed. "Not in this one."

Harry's head was spinning. Fortescue took a step forward, unconcerned about the wand which dug even deeper into his throat, "Lower it, boy. It's of no use. You know it."

Harry lowered his wand, his head still a muddling mess of thoughts. _Only if Kingsley had actually allowed me to train properly before forcing the job on me…_There were ten, probably highly-trained people in that room. No matter how much he tried to kid himself, Harry knew he couldn't take them all. _Merlin….there's no way this situation could get more messed up or confusing…._

"Now boy, to the point." Fortescue's expression was a weird mixture of a grin and a sneer. "Are you a Mudblood?"

Harry gaped. _It just did._

What baffled Harry most was not the fact that here people were threatening him about being a Mudblood when the War was already over, or that they didn't know who he was, or even the fact that Fortescue himself was a Muggleborn. What perplexed and confused and niggled at his instincts was the tone in which Fortescue spoke the word: Mudblood. There was something…..off about it.

The people surrounding Harry had finally woken up and become truly interested in what was going on, if the rustle of robes as wands were withdrawn from them were any indication. Fortescue gave that expression again, the grin/sneer, "I asked you a question, boy. Are you a Mudblood or not?"

There it was again, that strange tone behind the word Mudblood. It was not contempt, not derision, nor disdain, or any of the emotions that Harry's ears had often heard accompanying the word. And Harry had the vague, but persisting feeling that figuring this out was important.

Fortescue continued looking at him with that expression, waiting for an answer. Harry stared at Fortescue's face, the carved nose, the sneering mouth, the unidentifiable emotion that twisted and gleamed like a whip in those once-kind eyes.

_That couldn't possibly be….pride, could it?_

"Well?" Seemed like Fortescue was finally tired of waiting.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it of the thundering emotions that were running amok like rampaging Hippogryffs. _Oh, to hell with it. _"No. I'm not a…Muggleborn."

Fortescue sneered and withdrew his wand, followed by all the others in the room, pointing it at Harry. Harry blinked rapidly, his breath coming fast, and hand tightening over his wand. Something told him that he had made a very, very big mistake by replying to that question. And that same something also informed him that these people weren't drawing out their wands to shoot coloured bubbles out from them. They meant business. And judging from the looks on their faces, that business involved disposing off Harry as soon as possible.

_But even if these people are somehow related to the Death Eaters, why would they turn on me on knowing that I'm __**not **__a Muggleborn?_

A strangely pleased expression overcame Fortescue's face. His gruff voice was throbbing with eagerness, "I'm glad of that. Coz now time for talking is over." Fortescue jabbed his wand so hard into Harry's Adam's apple that he choked slightly. Pure, undisturbed mania shone clear in Fortescue's eyes, "Goodbye boy."

_Crap._

And just then, the room exploded.

Well, not really. More like the room went pitch-black, an explosion in the centre sent the eleven people in the room flying to the ground, and dense fumes of _something _started filling up the air with disturbing rapidity. The moment Harry hit the ground, before his brain could whir into action, he had rolled away under the nearest table, Bubble-Head Charm intact round his head. No training notwithstanding, battle instincts were still something that Harry was born with. Breathing heavily, wand in hand, Harry tried to scramble away, propped on his elbows and knees.

Suddenly, something swung into Harry's vision, and knocked into his spectacles. Eyes watering, Harry flung out a spell just as viciously: the Bone Crumbling curse ripped into the sleeve; Harry just realized that it was an elbow that had knocked into his eyes; and someone let out a muffled grunt of pain. Harry twisted his head around, and saw stars immediately as Fortescue's fist came crashing into his head. Apparently he hadn't been the only bright one to resort to a Bubble-Head Charm when the Garroting Gas had started spreading in the room.

Biting his tongue in pain, Harry kicked out, and evidently the heel of his boot made contact with Fortescue's ribs, if the way he was clutching his stomach was any indication. Harry turned and crawled out from the table, and somehow, amidst all the jets of light narrowly missing him by inches, managed to make his way to the Cauldron entrance door. Hoisting himself up, he wrenched the door open, then turned to look at the chaotic room one last time. Big mistake.

Confronted by a sickly-yellow jet of light inches away from his face, Harry froze completely, for perhaps the first, and hopefully the last time in his life. He closed his eyes.

Then a vice-like grip closed over his wrist, and before Harry could breathe, he was thrown into the familiar death-squeezing sensation of Apparition, and everything went blank.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry blinked dazedly. He was out of it for a minute, or even less as far as he could tell. The walls of the room around him were still spinning….no wait those weren't walls…..and that was definitely wet grass under his hands…where the heck was he?

_Are those…..trees?_

All that Harry wanted to do, was slump to the ground and rest his aching head. But instead, his lax grip on his holly wand tightened, he shot to his feet unsteadily, immediately on the alert. He had just been Side-Along Apparated. It may have brought him out of a rather sticky situation, but that didn't change the fact that it was done forcibly, when he was off-guard. And it had been done just a few seconds prior, which meant that the person who had done it was still here now.

"Harry Potter."

Harry whirred around, his wand on the ready. But his grip on the wand had already loosened, because even in his disoriented state, he could recognize that voice in a snap.

"Ginny?"

Ginny Weasley stood before him, hair askew, robes ruffled, and looking downright murderous. Her scarlet hair was down to her waist, straight and swept up to the side by a cobalt-blue clasp, wisps flying here and there. Her face was pale and flawless, never having really inherited the trademark Weasley freckles, a flush working its way up her high cheekbones. She was dressed in plain black robes, standing in front of Harry in the middle of what was undoubtedly a forest clearing, hand on her waist, looking like she was waiting for something.

"Ginny thank Merlin you're here, I've been so confused, you'll never guess what just happened to m-"

_Slap._

Well, he knew what she had been waiting for now. She had just been waiting for him to open his mouth so that she could smack him across the face with her full strength.

Cheek stinging, eyes watering slightly, Harry blinked rapidly, then looked at his girlfriend of a year with earth-shattering incredulity. If he had had distended jaws, then his lower one would have been on the floor by now. "_Ginny_? What the bleeding hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Ginny pursed her lips, then stared at Harry, no correction, _glared _at him. In fact, if looks could kill, Harry would be long-dead, buried, and singing with angels in heaven by now. She crossed her arms, flicked back a long inflamed lock from her darkened coffee eyes, and looked at him with equal parts condemnation, disgust, and hatred.

_Hatred?_

Ginny's voice was cold enough to freeze ice. "What in the name of Merlin do you think you were doing?"

"Me?" Harry felt pinned down, the only time he'd felt like this before was his trial in fifth year, when Umbridge had almost got him expelled. The unmistakable feeling of you're-accusing-me-for-something-I-didn't-do was identical. "I didn't do anything! What on earth are you talking about?"

"Oh really." Ginny's every syllable dripped sarcasm. She started walking, her shoes making no sound against the soft grass, circling Harry slowly. Her teeth were gritted tightly when she spoke, "Do you have _any _idea what your _stupid _move could have cost us? Do you even give a frickin' _damn_, Potter?"

Harry's eyes widened. He didn't know what to be flabbergasted about: Ginny's slap, her strange behavior, the bitterness in her voice. Oh, he knew what. Maybe the fact that she had just called him _Potter_.

Harry rubbed his eyes vigorously. Maybe he was just dreaming.

But he still tried to give it another shot. "Gin I don't know what you're ta-"

"So this is the route you choose, is it _Harry_?" Ginny smiled faux sweetly, her teeth baring just a little. When Harry had heard his last name from Ginny's lips seconds ago, he never thought he could hate the sound of something else more. But the way Ginny had said his first name just now, it was just _wrong._ His Ginny didn't talk like this. But Ginny continued, unaware of Harry's thoughts, "You think you can just pull a stunt like this, waltz in and call me _Gin_, and you think I'll melt? Sorry _Potter_, your smooth ways may work on a million other people. But," Ginny's eyes flashed. "Not on me. I'm very happy with your 'Ginevra', thank you very much. You're welcome to stick to that."

That's it. Harry's head was seconds away from exploding. "I've never called you Ginev-"

Apart from behaving as strangely as she possibly could, Ginny also seemed to have acquired a fetish for interrupting him. "Look Potter, I don't have the time for whatever excuses you have to give. We need to get back now. Draco must be waiting back at the castle for-"

"Wait, wait, wait a minute." This time it was Harry who cut off Ginny's speech, holding up a hand. He must have misheard things. "Draco? As in _Draco Malfoy_?"

"Who else would give a bloody damn about where you went, Potter?" Ginny's biting retort made no sense to Harry. Malfoy would care where he went because…..he wanted to report him? Complain about him? No wait, they weren't in Hogwarts now, they had graduated, who the hell would Malfoy complain to anyway?

"-personally I don't even know why he bothers. Its useless anyway." Suddenly Harry realized that Ginny had continued talking, and he managed to catch the last few sentences. He couldn't make head or tail of it. But it didn't seem to matter anymore, because Ginny was bent down among the bushes, and judging by the scuffling sounds, evidently searching for something.

In light of all the confusion that had invaded his life in one day, it was stupid that Harry was wasting time on this question, instead of all the more important ones that he could ask, like what in the name of Merlin was happening to him, but the question still flew out, "What are you doing?"

Ginny clearly didn't even consider dignifying that with a response. Instead, she straightened up, boot in hand- wait, boot?- and gestured to him impatiently, "Come here."

"What?"

Ginny shot him the dirtiest of looks. "Have you injured your head, Potter? You're acting even more like an idiot than usual. I said, _come here_."

Harry slowly made his way towards Ginny, who raised the boot, and started looking at him expectantly.

_A Portkey._

Harry closed his eyes. He had clearly fallen asleep at the office, and woken up in the middle of London. Then, he had been ambushed in an empty Leaky Cauldron by a dead man and his friends, and then been attacked for _not _being a Muggleborn. Then Ginny turned up, saved him by taking him to a forest out of nowhere, and then started yelling at him and calling him _Potter. _And now she was offering him a Portkey to heaven-knows-where. Mad. That was what he was. Completely and utterly nutters. The War had addled his head. Because there was no way in hell he could dream up something this ludicrous until and unless he was absolutely bonkers.

Yet Harry opened his eyes, hesitantly laying a finger on the dusty boot smeared with moss. Horribly out of character or not, he found it difficult to not trust dream-Ginny. Besides, she _had_ saved him from the Leaky Cauldron, hadn't she?

Before he went completely crazy though, he had to ask one last question. "Where are we going?"

Ginny looked like he had just asked her what was the colour of grass. Or Weasley hair. In a tone contemptuous enough to put Malfoy to shame, Ginny shot Harry one last glare. "If you're trying to be thick just for fun, then shove it up your ass Potter. To Hogwarts of course."

And with that last line, Harry felt something hook onto his navel, and propel him into blackness.

**A/N: Review to encourage me to keep going, just one word (or more if you want to) is enough, pretty please?**


	3. I Have An Alter-Ego

**Chapter 3: I Have An Alter-Ego**

_Before he went completely crazy though, he had to ask one last question. "Where are we going?"_

_Ginny looked like he had just asked her what was the colour of grass. Or Weasley hair. In a tone contemptuous enough to put Malfoy to shame, Ginny shot Harry one last glare. "If you're trying to be thick just for fun, then shove it up your ass Potter. To Hogwarts of course."_

_And with that last line, Harry felt something hook onto his navel, and propel him into blackness._

Apparently, Harry was as graceless with Portkeys as ever. The moment they landed, his right leg wobbled, sending him tumbling to the cold stone floor. Harry winced as his knee collided against the hard flagstone. Ouch.

Harry looked up, expecting to see a familiar flowing hand, proffered to help him up. What he did see however, was an icy look, and an uplifted chin. "What the hell is the matter with you today, Potter?" But Ginny couldn't quite keep the slight hint of hesitation out of her voice, and even as she swept on ahead of him, he could see her glancing back, with a slightly unsure look on her face, as if even she was confused over his behaviour.

Harry got to his feet, then followed her. _You and me both, Ginny. You and me both._

As they walked through the ever-so familiar corridors of Hogwarts, Harry felt something faint niggling at the back of his head. Like he was missing something. They walked up staircases, down long winding passages, through mile-long corridors and small ante halls, and still Harry felt like he was forgetting something important. Something even more important than finding out what the hell was wrong with his world today.

Ginny crossed the portrait leading to the Gryffindor Tower entrance, and Harry who had partially slowed down there, automatically thinking that they were headed for the common room, blinked slightly and sped up. "Aren't we going to Gryffindor Tower?"

Ginny turned her head, her long mane of hair whipping through the air, never breaking her brisk stride. "Haven't had enough of being to places where you aren't welcome already?"

"Places where I am not…..Ginny, what on earth-" Harry broke off from his speech suddenly. They had neared the Entrance Hall, the anteroom leading to the Great Hall. Mounted above the House plaques high up on the wall, were gigantic hourglasses, four of them, each filled with precious gems of the House colours. Harry had seen them a million times before, and he shouldn't have been so shocked on seeing them. But he was. Oh, he was. _Because_ _they_ _bloody frickin' weren't supposed to be there._ In fact, now he knew what was wrong. Hogwarts was supposed to be ruined. Hermione, and Ron, and Neville, and all the rest were supposed to be trying to repair it. But it wasn't. He was seeing it with his own eyes.

"Those..those…" Harry was speaking very fast, breathing too heavily. Maybe, just maybe the entire day's inexplicable events were catching up on him. "They..they're not….they're not supposed to be there…they got destroyed in the War…Hermione told me 'bout it just yesterday…the traditional 'Reparo' wasn't working so…I..they're not…"

"Potter. Stop muttering gibberish." Ginny's voice was like a crack of a whip, it suddenly snapped Harry back to his senses. And his surroundings. He let out his breath suddenly, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. _God, Potter. Get a grip on yourself._

"Are you coming, or do you need a special invitation?" Ginny was far ahead of him already, near the entrance of the dungeons, long hair cascading over her shoulder as she looked behind irritatedly.

"Coming." It took quite an effort to force his voice out, but Harry managed it. He walked towards Ginny, pausing momentarily by her side, breathed out deeply, tone flawlessly normal, "Shall we?"

Clearly thrown off by the abrupt change to a casual voice, Ginny made eye-contact with Harry for a bare half-second, then averted her face immediately and strode down the corridor, waist-long hair streaming behind her. Harry sped up, but remained a good few paces behind Ginny as she started navigating her way through the dungeons.

Only when it started growing abnormally chilly and dark, the corridors lit up by flickering flames of braziers mounted on the walls, did Harry realize where exactly they were headed. He restrained himself from the obvious comment; they were going towards the Slytherin common room, Harry had never quite forgotten its location from his second-year jaunt; and also bit the question at the end of his tongue on why in the name of bloody Merlin were they going there.

_Relax. If this is really a dream-world which someone has dragged you into, then you'll just have to deal with the whole of it. No one can harm you here anyway. Not if you're prepared, and alert._

Harry suddenly recalled the feeling of Fortescue's wand jabbing into his throat, and amended to himself slightly. _And even if they do, hopefully I'll wake up. Hopefully._

_And if I don't, that means I'm not in a dream._

Harry was shaken out of his reverie by the smooth, grinding sound of a wall, grating against the cold flagstones of the floor. As he looked up, he was met by the sight of the wall-stones withdrawing into the sides, revealing a dark, dimly-lit circular room, shadowy yet welcoming. Sophisticated, high-backed armchairs were artistically placed in choice corners, lampshades cloaked in emerald and lined in silver adorned the small, mahogany centre-tables, pale sea-green light filtered in from the enchanted windows. A dark, ebony settee that Harry had definitely not seen in his previous visit, occupied pride of place in the circular room, placed before the roaring fireplace. And it was there that Ginny led them.

Ginny Weasley, red-haired, fiery-headed and the most quintessentially Weasley of them all, walked into the grand, intimidating Slytherin Common-room as if it was her birth-right. Heads spun when they both entered the common room, Harry displaying no hesitation whatsoever, that was a fatal mistake to make in a dragon's lair. Regardless, his shoulders immediately tensed and straightened under the onslaught, sharp eyes followed their every movement, but as far as Harry could tell, those eyes seemed to hold plain curiosity, nothing else. No burning anger, no scorn, no scathing insults specially reserved for two ex-Gryffindors that had just entered the snake's pit.

Following Ginny's lead and acknowledging no one, Harry walked towards the settee, back stiff, eyes fixed straight ahead, stride never wavering. It was a classic, and needed no training; all that was needed to do was to convince people that they weren't worthy of your attention, and they'd reciprocate gladly. Besides, Harry had walked through the Forbidden Forest clearing, with Death Eaters jeering at him, walked towards his death with his head held high; and nothing could possibly even dream of comparing to that. Not to mention of course, that even without Auror training, Harry could probably annihilate the Slytherins with his right hand tied behind his back.

Then someone got up from the black settee and walked towards him. Someone with blonde hair and grey eyes, to be particular.

"You pull one more stunt like that, Potter, and you _will _regret it."

After that stinging slap in the face from Ginny, and that hated 'Potter' from her lips, Harry thought nothing else in this dream-world could make him gape. But here he was, standing in the Slytherin common-room; standing and staring, at Draco Malfoy.

Because it was Draco Malfoy, it could be no one else, and yet it wasn't him. No one else had that characteristic platinum-blond hair, and yet the Malfoy who stood before him had platinum-blond hair with a long fringe that swept over his eyes, and hung lightly around his face rather than being gelled back. Sharp grey eyes, cold and unchanged; but here they were hidden by rectangular, silver-framed spectacles which lent a strangely intellectual touch to the sharp angular features. The generally pale face was marred by a greyish-black scar that twisted on Malfoy's right jaw, almost as if hooks had been dragged through the rugged skin, but the scar had the unusual effect of softening the face instead of highlighting it even more, so that the refined aristocratic features actually looked quite non-pointy while smirking at him.

"So Harry." Malfoy reclined back on the settee with an ease that was remarkably non-prattish, with very faint traces of resigned disapproval in his face. "The whole detour was just to lose the highlights?"

Harry glanced first at Ginny's dark face, and then at Malfoy's almost amiable one. Then he sat down with remarkable composure on the settee. Then he comprehended the sentence, or tried his very best to. Resisted very hard the temptation to bang his forehead on the settee. Then he, _finally, _yielded to an even stronger temptation, and withdrew his wand silently.

Ginny twitched irritably. She was before the fire, facing the settee, hands on her hips. Golden flames leaping in the background, greenish gloom all around, she looked like a glowing figure in the shadows, "Forgot that thing while you were facing off with Fortescue, did you Potter?" Then she turned to Malfoy, voice bordering on irate, "And you. Here he just strolls into the Leaky Cauldron where Devon and Fortescue are lying in ambush, and all you can ask him is how he lost the bloody green _highlights_ in his bloody hair?"

_Green…highlights?_

Malfoy reached for the intricately carved goblet placed on the little centre-table near the settee, filled with a darkish liquid with an amber-like fragrance, voice clear and calm, "He has had the 'bloody green highlights' in his hair ever since we were eleven. Permit me to express at least some degree of curiosity."

"Draco…" There was more of exasperation and less of actual anger in Ginny's voice now. She fixed her eyes on Malfoy, as if unwilling to even glance towards a frozen-with-shock Harry on hearing Malfoy's first name from her lips, "He walked in there in the sodding daylight! Without even caring that if he would have gotten caught, he could have compromised us, or the Resistance….." Here Ginny broke off, and cast a fleeting look at Harry, eyes cold and defensive.

_Resistance? Resistance to what?_

A moment of silence. Suddenly, Harry realized that he had remained silent too long, that Malfoy and Ginny were both looking at him as if expecting him to say something, but he realized it too late. He had barely opened his mouth to speak, when Malfoy turned back and faced Ginny, "I thought you trusted Harry better than this, Ginny."

"Not when he's endangering the life of everyone for his own whims and fancies." Ginny turned and met Harry's eyes with an icy, despise-filled glare that made Harry inhale tightly, inspite of that repeated mantra inside his head that this was only a dream. Her words were directed at Malfoy, but they were meant only for him. "If it was only his own life, then fine. He could go kill himself for all that I care."

"_Ginny._" Harry had never thought that he would ever see Malfoy directing such a censure-filled, reprimanding look towards Ginny. He pushed his silver-framed spectacles, tone as un-Malfoyish as could possibly be. "Have you ever thought that maybe it was important? Maybe he went there for his own reasons?"

"For his own reasons, oh of course." The acerbic sarcasm stung like nothing else could. Ginny leaned forward, hair sweeping forwards like a scarlet curtain of fire, eyes flashing, "I suppose that's why he was standing in front of Fortescue and Devon and their followers without a wand? Or to be more technically correct, with his wand lying on the floor?"

Malfoy looked unfazed. "Maybe he thought they were too measly for him to waste his energy on."

"Devon was there too, or _did_ _you_ _not_ _hear_ _me_ _the_ _first_ _time_?!" Ginny's fingers flexed, almost like they were itching to fasten around a certain someone's throat. She threw another incensed, derisive glance at Harry. "I think he qualifies as _suitable_ enough for the _Great_ Harry Potter to waste his energy on, no?"

There again. Another pause. This time it was unmistakeable, both Malfoy and Ginny were looking at him, definitely expecting a response, though what the hell they were expecting him to say when Harry was still trying to wrap his head around the confusion and weirdness in his dream was impossible. He tried nonetheless, "Uhm…I'm sorry?"

Malfoy's eyes changed. Ginny blinked, almost as if she had been caught off-guard. Whatever they had been expecting him to say, this hadn't been it. But Harry could hardly care, because while he had lowered his eyes while apologising for Merlin-knows-what, he had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the brightly polished goblet in Malfoy's hand.

His normally tanned face was pale, drawn-out; probably from all the action. His lips looked faintly dry, and gnawed upon. His eyes were as brilliantly green as ever. And his forehead had the light sheen of sweat.

And it was absolutely bare. Plain. Unmarked.

Harry shot to his feet faster than a bolt of lightning, nearly upsetting the goblet in Malfoy's hand. Ginny looked at him, face a mirror of fading anger and confusion, mouth opening probably to snap at him. Malfoy also looked up, but his strangely changed face was emotionless, and his eyes were keen; and shimmering with suspicion. And Harry needed to get out of there, _right now._

"I'm sorry….I, uh….have to go." Harry spoke so fast that it would have been a miracle if Malfoy and Ginny had managed to comprehend anything. He turned, and strode towards the common-room entrance like a blur, pulling it open, stepping outside, letting loose a deep, choked breath, and then running for his life.

His feet skidded around the sharp corridor turnings, his breath coming in deep gasps. The surroundings were no more than faint blurs to him, passing in and out of the periphery of his vision. He could barely feel the stitch in his side, or hear the noise of his boots sprinting up the staircases and down the hallways. He could not see the portraits that stared at him in astonishment, or the Hogwarts that was deceptively the same as he had last seen it, before its destruction. No, all he could concentrate on was the path through which he was running. He wasn't running from fear, or panic, or despair. He had conquered those emotions long, long time ago. They had no hold over him now, no jurisdiction, no claim on his actions. What was churning, curdling, boiling in his mind was pure, distilled, unadulterated: dread.

Only when Harry was faced with a dead end did he abruptly halt, come to a stop. His eyes were unseeing, still captured in the image which he had seen a few moments prior: the pale, colourless face of an erstwhile Boy-Who-Lived reflected in a goblet, except it seemed unrecognizable, because it was missing a very, very important feature. That feature being his scar. His sharp, jagged lightning-bolt shaped scar that had defined him from the moment he had received it, that had faded into a pale pink line after Voldemort's defeat, but had not entirely gone. But now, his forehead was bare. Plain. Unmarked. Almost as if Voldemort had never attacked him, almost as if Voldemort's Horcrux had never resided in his body, almost as if Harry had never defeated him. Almost as if this wasn't a dream. Almost as if _this wasn't his world_.

Only one thing remained now to be done. Harry raised the wand that was still tightly gripped in his right hand, mind caught in the whispered chants of: _this can't be happening, it can't it can't…_. He raised the wand, pointed it at his forehead, and whispered, "_Aguamenti Ennervate_."

After the War, Ron had liked to sleep in till late afternoon, claiming that the harsh twelve months had destroyed his sleep far too often and now he wished to recompense for the lost hours of carefree sleep as far as possible. Needless to say, Hermione had come up with a way to obstruct that ("These hours of freedom are hard-won, and Ronald is not going to waste them by _sleeping_!"); by devising a spell to wake Ron up as effectively as a cold bucket of water would, without actually drenching him in icy water that would simply cause him a volley of sneezes later, which Hermione had declared to be 'distasteful'. The charm replicated the effect of a good ol' cold water drenching, without actual 'drenching'. The spell was simple, effective, Harry had used it innumerable times on his snoring best mate to entertaining effect, and it was currently the most plausible solution to his problem. Not to mention of course, the spell had the added effect of washing away all spells and enchantments affecting the mind.

Harry took in a sharp intake of breath as the sudden, stinging sensation of icy water washed over him. Resisting the illusory urge to shake his head, or wipe the trail of water trickling down his brow (he would find nothing there except dry skin and perhaps salty sweat), Harry blinked rapidly and opened his eyes fully, which had closed of their own accord. He was still in the same passage, in front of the same dead end. He was confirmedly, definitely _not _in a dream. With the slightest hint of desperation, Harry twisted his head and glanced sideways at the frosted glasspane looking out on the calm, deserted Hogwarts grounds, pushing up his messy fringe with his left hand. The image was blurred, but unmistakeable. The scar was not there.

_Crap. Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap…_

In the midst of a part of Harry's brain screaming that it was simply _not fair_, he had just endured seven years of this for Merlin's sake, couldn't the fates grant him some _peace_; his deep, internal voice extorting him to stay calm, that fighting would do no good; and his masochistic conscience recalling a lecture Hermione had given him on alternate dimensions a fortnight prior and chuckling about irony; Harry absently felt a solid body knock into him, the other person landing on his/her butt with a distinct 'oof.'

Without even being aware of what he was doing, and who had just rammed into him, Harry proffered a hand in a preoccupied manner, still mentally hyperventilating, and hoisted the person up. It was not until Harry heard a very, very familiar spaced-out voice say, "Harry Potter?" that Harry actually looked up and found a pair of silver, protuberant eyes inches away from his face.

"L-luna?"

For the third time that day, Harry found himself gaping at a familiar face. Long stringy, dirty-blonde hair, owlish eyes, almost translucent skin….Luna Lovegood looked the same as always. But as those thin lips flickered, as if to say something, Harry found himself dreading the words, dreading another drastic change in the world around him, another sharp blow.

"You look like you've just seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

Harry wasn't ashamed to say that he almost crumpled in relief. There were some times, some times in life where you just had to forget about being strong and weak, and just go with your feelings. Without quite being aware of what he was doing, he threw his arms around Luna, hugging her tight enough to squeeze all her breath out of her.

_I'm glad some things never change._

"Harry Potter?" Luna's voice came muffled into Harry's shoulder, speaking as though being death-hugged by random accidental dimension-travellers was an everyday occurence. "As nice as it is to be hugged by you, it would be nice to know why you'd do so before you've talked to me. You've never talked to me before, you know. I don't know if it's normal to hug before you talk."

Harry withdrew himself, slightly embarrassed but grinning widely. Then Luna's words penetrated into his head, and his grin faltered slightly. "I…I've never spoken to you before?"

Luna straightened the creases out of her robes, eyes fixated on Harry's face, "Not exactly, no."

"Oh it's just…" Harry looked sideways, eyes boring into the cold stone wall, despair spreading slowly, but ever so inevitably in his heart. "I…..I was in my office, was so…..happy about my training and my career, everything was going so brilliantly, but then I fell asleep, and I woke up, and this dead man ambushed me in the Leaky Cauldron, and everyone was behaving as if the War wasn't over, and Ginny dragged me out, and she slapped me, and called me Potter, and then we came here, and Hogwarts was the same, and Slytherin, and Malfoy, and highlights, and…." Harry stopped suddenly, realizing that he was rambling in tension, nervousness that he hadn't felt for so long was curling in his gut. _God_, he thought he was over the awkward teen phase, he had grown up, but apparently accidental dimension travel could reduce him back to blabbering. He breathed out again in an attempt to keep calm, and turned his gaze back to Luna, who was still watching him curiously, and offered her an apologetic, rueful smile, "Sorry. I must not be making much sense to you."

"That's alright." Luna smiled softly. "I often don't make much sense to people, but I still wish they'd listen to me anyway."

Somewhere deep within the pit of despair making its place within his heart, Harry felt a warm glow. He was angry, and frantic, but he couldn't quite stop a faint smile from tugging on his lips at Luna's words, "So…you'll listen to me then?"

"Sure." Luna reverted back to the normal, I'm-just-talking-about-the-weather kind of voice. Then she gestured at the dead-end corridor around them, "Friggy-Wasps love cold, stone places and confuse people's trust issues. I caught two of them buzzing around your cloak. So a change of scene?"

"Of course. Don't want any Frizzy-things to mess up your trust issues." Right then if Luna had told him that Ginny was a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, Harry would probably have agreed without argument. "I think I know the perfect place."

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Room of Requirement. Merlin, he missed this place.

The room had taken the form of a comfortable sitting room, with two couches, an armchair and a roaring fireplace. Apparently the Room wished to make them feel as at-ease as possible. Sure, Harry didn't quite understand the logic behind the bright cobalt-blue rabbit rug, or the French windows looking out on the calm lake, but as long as the place was secure enough for him to talk, he would do so.

"So?" Luna flounced to the armchair, and settled on it, smoothening out the creases on her robes again, though her misty eyes were fixed on Harry. "You were saying something?"

For a bare second, Harry hesitated, million thoughts which had been engraved in his head since the War coming to the forefront, thoughts about imposters, and unknown people and betrayers. Then he took one glance at Luna's clear, honest eyes, and plunged right in. "I don't think I'm from this world."

Luna cocked an eyebrow, "Literally or figuratively?"

Somehow, saying it to Luna seemed to make it all real. Harry's jaw tightened, his breath stuck in his chest; but Hermione's words from a week previous….yes, no other explanation made more sense. And if he was wrong, or Merlin forbid _right_, then Luna could correct him. "Literally."

Luna surveyed Harry calmly under her almost transparent eyes, a strangely piercing stare. Then she nodded abruptly, voice matter-of-fact, "I think I agree with you."

Harry's fingers dug into the coverlet of the couch imperceptibly, voice a bare whisper, "Why?"

Luna fixed her gaze upon Harry, and in that second seemed to be looking past his very being, "You're not the Harry Potter I know."

The muscles in Harry's back were coiled tightly, he was holding himself too stiff. He had realized the truth before, but hearing it from Luna was entirely something else. He did what he had done at the Leaky Cauldron earlier, spoke in a completely self-possessed, undisturbed voice when he would have liked nothing more than to scream, "I suppose the Harry Potter you knew was a Slytherin?"

Luna tilted her head slightly, "You're not?"

Harry let out a ghost of a laugh, utterly mirthless, "Not exactly. And the War wasn't going on either. Voldemort was dead. _Dead_."

Luna continued without blinking, "He's dead here too. Has been dead for seventeen years."

The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis for Harry, "_What?_"

"You-our Harry Potter killed him when he was one. Voldemort never returned."

Harry exhaled slowly, too slowly, "Then why the hell was I ambushed in the Leaky Cauldron?"

Something indecipherable entered Luna's eyes at that. Her voice almost grew…..cold. "You never had the Mudblood Revolt in your world, did you?"

Harry blinked. He had to be hearing things. _Had to be_. Because there was _no way in bloody sodding hell _that Luna just used that word.

Luna seemed to read Harry's silence correctly. A small, almost-smile flitted across her lips, "It's a long story."

Harry forced his body to relax, releasing the unwanted tension from his muscles, "Listening."

Luna took a deep, long breath. Then, she began.

"The First Wizarding War took many lives. All of us knew that. It came to an end one Halloween night, when Lord Voldemort paid a visit to Godric's Hollow…" A pause. "To kill the Potters. He succeeded in eliminating two of them: James and Lily Potter. Then he turned his wand on Harry Potter. All of us know what happened next. Voldemort was killed, destroyed…" Luna raised her eyes to fix them on Harry. "And he never returned again."

"After Voldemort was defeated, there was a….. power void in the Ministry. He hadn't exactly left behind a list of his followers, for the Aurors to identify and catch. They were still at large, still very powerful. One of his Death Eaters took advantage of the situation, the confusion…..in one stroke, he bribed most of the powerful people to his sides, and assassinated the dangerous ones. Within a fortnight of Voldemort's defeat," A much longer, heavier pause; Luna's voice sounded almost weary, "Albus Dumbledore was killed."

Harry's eyes closed of their own accord. The War had gotten immensely difficult after Dumbledore's death in his sixth year, to think that this world's Harry Potter had never known Dumbledore…..inconceivable.

"In the months that followed, the situation worsened. One by one, wizards and witches who stood for the Light began getting eliminated, all under mysterious circumstances. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, Madam Bones, Hestia Jones, Arthur Weasley…."

Harry's calloused fingers tightened into fists at the last name. _Ron and Ginny grew up without their father…_

"The ones who remained were confused, who was ordering these murders? People were concerned, but not as worried as they should have been, because Voldemort was dead, everything seemed happy and pleasant on the surface, the killings were far and in between, and our aforementioned Death Eater continued bringing more and more people to his side. So it was, that exactly five years after that fated Halloween night, that Lucius Malfoy was elected Minister of Magic."

_Merlin._

Luna's face was blank, emotionless; her voice was as light as ever, but she sounded like she was reciting mere facts, rather than the destruction of the world that Harry had known, "Malfoy's reign was rather beautiful, in the way that no one was quite aware of what was going on under the cover of the Ministry. Lucius Malfoy exposed the half-blood descent of his erstwhile master Voldemort publically, to the media, and of course indirectly blamed it all on the Muggle blood received from his father. Yet Malfoy declared himself as a staunch supporter of Muggleborn-rights, and organized 'classes' by Ministry instructors for Muggleborns to familiarize them with the Wizarding world. The deception was beautifully spun, and under the guise of 'introductory classes', the torture of the Muggleborns began."

"Hogwarts wasn't spared. It started with the death of Albus Dumbledore a fortnight after Voldemort's defeat, and as soon as Malfoy became Minister, he placed a new, suitable supporter in the Headmaster's Study." Then Luna's voice twisted, and for the first time, Harry found naked hatred in that light, airy voice, as those lips shaped the name which had haunted the living nightmares of Hogwarts students. "Regis Winterborn. A powerful, manipulative, kind man. Yes, very kind indeed." Luna smiled, and smiled so bitterly that Harry would have preferred enraged screaming, to this kind of smile. "He taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, and often had remedial tutions for the students. Strange, how most people never realized that the remedial lessons were only granted to students who were Muggleborn. And even if they realized it, it was too late. Students would come in with scars, whip marks, contusions, internal bleeding, haemorrhage…." Another bitter twist of the lips. "A set of first years had once been caught with severe acid burns in their genitals. And none, absolutely none of the students opened their mouths as to who had done it, or seemed to remember it at all."

"There were reservations. Purebloods barely scraping through their exams were granted pass-marks, while Muggleborns passing with flying colours had to fight for admission in the next year. Separate dorms were made in the name of 'protecting' Muggleborns from pureblood bullies in their year, and the general public were so grateful, that they forgot to notice that the dorms had no heating or ventilation, that the house-elfs forgot to clean there, or that there were ten people stuffed into one tiny room. Winterborn disallowed Muggleborns on House Quidditch teams on the pretext that purebloods might take it as an opportunity to hurt them. Sorting was done on the basis of bribes. Almost ninety percent of Hufflepuff was muggleborn. Misbehaving muggleborns were deprived of their wand for weeks, months even. And when they got detention….well, the instruments in Winterborn's office quickly became very familiar to them. And then…..," Luna raised her silver eyes to meet Harry's emerald orbs. "Your generation entered Hogwarts."

"Please tell me things changed." Harry was surprised by the amount of quiet, restrained desperation he heard in his voice. He wanted some, any reassurance that the world he had stumbled into had to, had to be better than _this_, than what Luna was telling him now.

"Oh, it did. It _definitely _did." Luna laughed, faintly. "It brought a kind of fresh breeze into Hogwarts, a new hope, a new happiness. Whiteborn was smart enough to dupe many who had come into Hogwarts, fool them into thinking that everything was okay, that Muggleborns were just as welcome here as anywhere else. But he required a special kind of cunning to fool you, or Malfoy, which was why the 'lessons' and detentions decreased in frequency. Not that they stopped entirely, but the muggleborns certainly got a bit more breathing space."

Harry remained quiet for a few seconds, till a question that had been nagging at the back of his head found its way to the tip of his tongue. "Malfoy? But he was the son of the Minister, why would he…"

Luna laughed again. This time the sound was louder, a bit more boisterous. "Oh, Draco Malfoy was nothing like his father, most of us understood that the moment we first spoke to him. Of course, it helped that he was best friends with Ginny Weasley, daughter of a blood-traitor family, and Harry Potter, half-blood and defeater of the Dark Lord himself."

Harry found his eyebrows rising up into his hairline rapidly. Oh he had guessed that Malfoy and he were on better terms in this world but…. "Best friends?"

"Oh yes, no other phrase can quite do the relationship between the three of you justice." Luna smiled, warmly. "Your and Draco's friendship was quite legendary really, something like James Potter and Sirius Black when they were in school. I guess it had something to do with the way you always stuck together, the way he clearly respected you, or the way he was the only one who could hold you back."

Harry blinked. "Hold me back?"

"Well….you were a kind person, there's no doubt about that. You never could really tolerate any sort of prejudice, or pureblood-mania. But you were a true-green Slytherin, so you did tend to be a bit…" Luna paused as if to find the right word. "Harsh."

Harry allowed himself to smile slightly. "That's a gross understatement, isn't it?"

"Well, I guess harsh isn't quite the word. Asshole-ish would be more like it." Luna stated. Then in an extremely very serious manner, "Though, if it makes you feel any better, the entire female population of Hogwarts was madly in love with you."

Harry blinked again. Twice. Then in a matching serious voice, "How could you make out that I wasn't the Harry Potter you knew?"

"The both of you look really similar, almost identical, being counterparts of one self of course. But you're…different. The Harry Potter that walked in the corridors of this Hogwarts….walked differently." Luna subjected Harry to intense scrutiny again, eyes imitating x-ray machines, sweeping over what felt like his entire body and being. "He wasn't breathtakingly dashing, or charming or mysterious, or any of that nonsense. He had a sort of air about him though. An air that screamed aristocratic-and-rebellious at the same time." Luna examined Harry even further, leaning in till her nose almost touched his, leaving him to feel just a teeny-weeny bit dissected and uncomfortable. "Didn't slouch like you do." Harry straightened up unconsciously. "Definitely more confident than you, though maybe a little less assured. And he had green highlights. In his hair."

_At least got the answer to one question._

"What about Ginny? For someone who's supposed to be my best friend, she doesn't seem to like me much." Harry recalled with a sudden pang, the venom in Ginny's voice as she addressed him.

"Well, the relation between the two of you is slightly more…complicated." Luna placed a pale finger on her chin, musing. "The whole of Hogwarts knows it. Ginny Weasley is Draco Malfoy's best friend, and Harry Potter is his brother in all but blood. So by default, Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter are best friends. Or rather, Ginny hates Harry Potter and he's generally indifferent towards her."

Indifferent. Wow. Harry felt like he was floating, like everything around him was blurry, fuzzy, dream-like. In the midst of anger and despair trying to choke him, faint screaming inside his head, a small cynical smile lingered around his lips, as he ran his calloused fingers through short, jet-black locks. It always had to be him, didn't it? Every single time. Always had to be him, the one who underwent countless assassination attempts by a megalomaniac Dark Lord, the one who got made into a Dark artefact by aforementioned megalomaniac, the one who died and died and never quite managed it properly, and now finally the one who ended up travelling into an alternate dimension where the love of his life hated him. His life would be utterly hilarious only if he had a sense of humour large enough to appreciate it.

Then, a prick at the back of his head. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen." Luna smiled genially, then cocked an eyebrow, "Why?"

"If I'm a year older than you in this world, I'm eighteen. My batch graduation should have been last year. What are Malfoy and Ginny and me doing at Hogwarts?" Somehow, Harry felt he already knew the answer to that question.

"You're a part of the Resistance, of course." Luna spoke like it was the most obvious thing in the entire universe, apart from the fact that Crumple-Horned Snorcacks were real. "The Resistance to the Mudblood Revolt."

There it was. That word again. Harry couldn't quite bring his voice to an accusation, Luna was looking at him too knowingly, "Why do you call them…that?"

"Mudblood, you mean?" The words were brusque, abrupt, in-your-face. "I didn't name the revolt. She did."

"She who?"

"The Leader of the Mudblood Revolt." Luna's voice was impassive, casual. "She doesn't like calling herself 'Dark Lady' though. Finds it too stereotypical."

_Oh. _Harry remained silent, unreactive. _So in place of Voldermort, a Dark Lord, there is a Lady. Not the champion of the purebloods. The leader of the Mudblood Revolt._

"How?" The question was simple. It needed no clarification.

"Once all of your graduations were approaching, the situation was going from bad to worse. Muggleborns became resigned to the world they were living in, became resigned to the fact that they would face torture and discrimination all their lives. But there were a few who refused to accept the fact that they would always be second-class. They spoke out. Regis Winterborn couldn't tolerate that. These students were subjected to hell on earth. Mental. Physical. And on a few 'special' students, Winterborn didn't even cast the Memory Charm. They had to live with the memory with what was done to them, and the fact that no one would believe them."

The slightly bitter smile made a return. "Then one day, all hell broke loose."

"It was Graduation Day. _She _wasn't allowed to speak of course, no muggleborn was, but she took her chance no less. In front of parents, students, press, the Ministry. In the Ceremony. She killed Lucius Malfoy."

Harry felt his eyes widen.

"She had been gathering followers, people like her, who had had enough of being mistreated, who were ready to follow anyone who could overthrow the purebloods. She went public with it. She displayed what she was capable of, and announced the beginning of the Mudblood Revolt. And then everything changed, in the course of a week. Regis Winterborn vanished from Hogwarts. People wondered and speculated. Then, a week later, every corrupt Ministry official, every pureblood supporter, received a parcel with one piece. One piece of the butchered, mutilated body of Regis Winterborn. And every single one of them was killed. Mercilessly."

"If it had stopped there, maybe it would have been good. But it went on. Innocent purebloods, who had actually been helping the muggleborns, were being battered to death. There were killings on the street, in public. Blood, everywhere. Hogwarts students were being murdered. In the pureblood homes, there was carnage. Blood spattered walls, powdered bones, guts littering the floor. Entire pureblood lines were being wiped out. And survivors were too terrified, struck dumb for the rest of their lives. And those who could speak whispered of a new horror, a new form of torture, torture of the mind. She had sworn to wipe out every pureblood from the face of the earth. And she was keeping her promise."

Silence. Then Harry raised his eyes, and spoke the question, the question he had already known the answer to, the moment the Mudblood revolt was mentioned.

"What was her name?"

More silence. Luna met Harry's eyes squarely, and spoke in a voice that had no hesitance in it whatsoever, two simple words.

"Hermione Granger."


End file.
